


Twist the Knife

by joisbishmyoga



Category: Meitantei Conan | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Coping with trauma, M/M, Shota, but it's a hopeful ending, mutual rape, the aftermath is worse, the vouchsafe is evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisbishmyoga/pseuds/joisbishmyoga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lot number 2!"  Conan was going to be hearing that watery, clinical voice in his nightmares for a very long time, with its 'measurements' and 'allergy tests' and 'pain tolerance assessments'.  "Blue-eyed boy.  Superficial damage only."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist the Knife

"Come on... come on..." The rope behind Conan's back slipped through his fingers again, his knuckles scraping hard against the stone wall. " _Dammit._ "

"Are you done yet?" the little girl next to him whined. "I don't wanna keep touching your butt. It's _naked._ "

"Trust me, I don't want you to either," Conan muttered. He didn't want any of these kids to have to touch anyone anywhere they didn't want to. Which was going to happen to more than the poor kindergartner these sick bastards had already taken away if Conan didn't _get someone free already._

The door clunked open.

_Oh gods no_. Conan's stomach twisted as the man (180 cm, thin facial hair, hawk-nosed and muscled like a wrestler) cast a jaded eye over them and checked a mark off on the clipboard hanging by the door. Then he pulled a knife from his boot, yanked Conan forward, and sliced behind him.

Conan's wrists didn't fall completely free, but they fell loose from the wall with little more than a sharp tug when the knife hit the rope. _Free_. Conan promptly threw his weight entirely against the man's grip and ducked under to bite, since kicking wouldn't do much in bare feet but lose his leverage.

Not that the leverage mattered. The man simply pinned Conan's legs under one arm and hauled him up into a chokehold with the other. Clawing ineffectually at the man's thick sweatshirt ( _which I bet he wore specifically because kids scratch when they fight, goddammit_ ), Conan twisted and hissed through his teeth. _Maybe he can't let me risk breaking my neck, maybe he'll lose his balance, maybe he won't get his kicks thinking about how I'm moving late tonight ICK BADTHOUGHTS..._

Getting hauled onto the stage felt like a slap in the face, the spotlight white-hot in his eyes.

"Lot number 2!" Conan was going to be hearing that watery, clinical voice in his nightmares for a very long time, with its 'measurements' and 'allergy tests' and 'pain tolerance assessments'. "Blue-eyed boy. Superficial damage only." Conan's captor lifted him a little higher, the auctioneer tapping at the gunshot scar low on Conan's flank. Conan couldn't help it: he twitched violently, a growl bubbling up in his throat. "As you can see, this one's a fighter, and very clever with his hands. We recommend keeping him restrained at all times. His tolerance is at the top of the scale," _fucking car battery_ , "so be ready to work for your moans. Do I hear a thousand? One thousand, two, four, five very good, seven..."

Dammit, he couldn't see past the spotlight. Not enough to see more than the vague shapes of a first and second row, the occasional flash of a paddle farther back as the bidding rose. Certainly not enough to count how many perps there were, much less identify more than the auctioneer and the muscle.

"Sold! Fourteen seven-fifty, thank you very much. Are you interested in the next lot?" A paddle waved negatively. "Then if you'll just follow this gentleman into the second office on your left, we'll go through the paperwork." And Conan felt a surge of panic, nearly hyperventilating as he was summarily hauled away.

He caught a glimpse of the crowd ( _six twelve eighteen the back row's not full_ ) as they passed, then they entered a room with three more people half-hidden in the shadowed corners. A fat, pinch-faced man sat on an industrial dolly between a pair of packing crates. The sweet-faced woman who'd distracted Conan so he could get grabbed was leaning in the corner with a gun openly holstered over her blouse. And a strung-out teenage gangbanger sat perched in a metal folding chair between them, eyes pinned to the door.

The door shut quietly behind the buyer: a thin, moonfaced man of perhaps thirty who stepped over to a tumbled filing cabinet and set a dull black briefcase on top. "I brought fifteen thousand," he said, and Conan went ice cold. It was Kaitou Kid's voice, right down to the high, tense pitch and quick diction of excitement that Kid had stopped controlling when they confronted each other on heists. "You have his papers and clothing to wear out?"

With a warning shake, the hired muscle set Conan down on his feet, one large hand clamped threateningly on his neck. "About that."

"Hm?"

"It's just a bit of a formality. You see, you're a new face in our customer base, and no one has vouched for you." Crooked teeth flashed in a fake smile. "And it's such a high-risk business to engage in, for us and our customers alike. You won't mind a little extra security in the future, hm? Two or three... or perhaps even four years down the line? Our goods don't keep well, after all."

"Hm." Kid counted out precisely five of the fifty-dollar bills, folding and tucking them into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. "That seems reasonable enough," he said noncommittally. "But... forgive me, I've spent perhaps a bit too much time in the West. Perhaps we could speak of the subject, rather than around it?" The four traffickers tensed, the hand on Conan's neck going almost bruisingly tight. "Or perhaps I could speak of it."

Blue eyes met Conan's, and suddenly the icy feeling fled straight into a lump of utter certainty in Conan's stomach. He knew exactly what Kid was going to have to say.

"You want proof I'm not undercover."

"Ah, well, it's just there are so many characteristics, you understand..."

"No, no, I understand." Kid waved a hand airily, calmingly. "Although I'd much prefer to go without an audience--"

"As do most of our customers," the thug assured him. "Don't worry, you won't even notice that we're here."

"I hope so. Well, what must be, must be." Kid's eyes finally dropped to meet Conan's. There was no question there, nothing for Conan to do but meet the same realization: it was either a bullet to the thief's brain, leaving Conan to be thrown back into the auction and bought again, or for them to save both themselves and the children. Either way, Conan wasn't going to be a virgin by dawn.

Conan let his face fall into the familiar, defiant lines from all the cases they'd shared, all the heists and murderous imposters and terrorists. _Move and countermove, catch all the criminals but you, and live to see another day._

Kid smirked. "We'll just have to save the best treats for later," he mused aloud. One hand caught Conan firmly by the jaw, tipping his head up with mock roughness, and the thug's sweaty hand left Conan's neck. "Let's see," Kid murmured, pressing in with a thumb so that Conan had to open his mouth. "I don't think I trust your mouth just yet."

Smart bastard. Conan could've believeably bit at whatever got shoved in there.

"Chair," Kid said, snapping the fingers of his other hand imperiously at the shadows. Movement flickered in the corner of Conan's eye, and the gangbanger's folding chair got shoved behind Kid. Kid straightened it with a quick tug of his foot, then settled onto the tarnished seat.

To kick or not to kick? The choice got taken out of Conan's hands when Kid abruptly released and spun him around, scooping him up into Kid's lap. Wool-clad knees pinned Conan's legs together, an arm like iron pinning him to Kid's chest, Kid's breath hot against his ear.

One square palm landed on Conan's chest, nicked fingertips pinching at a nipple. Quick as thought, Conan twisted and snapped, teeth just barely missing Kid's nose, then jackknifed and tried for the man's arm. Neither were in reach, getting a nasty little chuckle out of Kid. He left off toying with the nipple and clamped his hand over Conan's throat, pinning his head once more. 

"I _am_ going to enjoy making you scream," Kid purred. "Later."

That sounded entirely too realistic. _I trust him, I trust him, I trust him dammit..._ His mental litany was all that let him keep his composure when Kid got a grip on Conan's bare hip and pulled them together. There was no mistaking the lump behind Kid's fly, even only half-hard.

Conan jerked away automatically. Much to his surprise, Kid let him go... but that was only to reach between them, knuckles grazing between Conan's cheeks just before he heard the sound of the zipper coming undone.

Kid's hand came back up in Conan's peripheral vision, lifting towards their faces. Conan couldn't see, but he didn't feel anything wet as he heard Kid licking.

_He's not going to... not with just spit, he_ can't, _it won't fit..._

But if Conan blocked access... He sat back down firmly, trying to ignore both the warm shaft pressed at the sensitive apex of his legs and the faint whimper in his ear.

"Very good," Kid murmured. _Shoot, how did I play right into his hands this time?_ The clamp Kid's legs had on Conan's suddenly loosened, Kid's hand darting between Conan's thighs, and Kid pulled himself through before tightening down once more. _Oh._ Okay, Kid's cock damp and warm between his thighs, tucked up against his balls, with the head positioned to rub... so that's how Kid planned to work this without harm...

Kid's arm came down over his hips again, pinning him in place, and Kid began to thrust.

_Ngk._ It was rougher than Conan liked... or thought he remembered liking, anyway... and _oh_ that felt _weird_. Everything was too tight, Kid's palm against their cocks, his legs clamped around Conan's, the rhythmic tensing of abdominal muscles against Conan's bound hands... except his mindful grip on Conan's throat was almost gentle, though Conan otherwise couldn't move his head at all, much less off Kid's shoulder... But it didn't hurt, exactly, and something in Conan's brain said it _should._

At least it didn't take long. It seemed like mere minutes before Kid thrust one last time and shuddered against him, and semen splattered in pale, ropy streams over Conan's lap and stomach.

"Ew! You peed weird on me!"

Kid grunted. "Get used to it." He slowly relaxed back into the chair, not letting up his grip on Conan. "I trust that was sufficient."

"Oh, yes _sir_ ," the damned thug said.

"Excellent." Kid shoved Conan off his lap onto the cold concrete ("Hey!"), and trapped him there with a well-shod foot on his head. As Conan watched, seething, Kid brought out a handkerchief and fastidiously wiped off his hand, then himself. "His papers and clothes, if you would."

"Of course." Movement caught Conan's attention, the fat man finally standing. He handed a small bundle of fabric to the thug, and unfolded a thin sheaf of computer printouts. Low murmurs filled the room as the fat man pointed at various items in the file ( _no common allergies, a little late starting to lose his deciduous teeth, scars haven't hampered his flexability..._ ), and the thug dropped the pile of clothes next to Conan.

Conan kicked halfheartedly at the hand that grabbed his ankle before allowing himself to be wrestled into a small pair of black sweatpants. A pair of worn tennis shoes followed, then the thug sat him up and zipped a long winter coat onto him (without untying Conan's hands to put them in the sleeves; they hadn't been kidding about 'recommending restraints at all times'). Conan sat sullenly, trying to ignore the semen ( _Kid's semen_ ) cooling in wet patches inside the clothing, while the muscular man jammed the coat's sleeves into its pockets and pulled a wool hat over Conan's head.

"That's all then. Would you like to return to the auction?" Kid shook his head at the thug. "Thank you and come again. Have a nice day."

"I plan to," Kid replied, just at the edge of smug. Then he scooped up Conan and set him on his feet, giving him a little push. "Move, boy. I'm not carrying a mess like you."

"'S your fault," Conan muttered, expecting the smack to the back of his head.

Back through the main warehouse. There was a crying little girl onstage now, with bidding at twenty thousand and climbing; several of the bidders had a child tied to their chair. Conan caught a glimpse of the child who'd been taken out for auction before him... so that was one worry down, though he wasn't sure if any of the later bidders had bought what they wanted and left already.

_I still trust Kid. But he'd better have one hell of a rescue plan about to go off FAST._

Once outside, Kid caught him by the scruff of the neck and pointed them north. A sleek little car in midnight blue sat parked two warehouses over. Kid half-lifted Conan in through the driver's side door, pushing him into the passenger seat and buckling him in without untying him, then silently started up the car and began to drive.

... _I_ think _I still trust him_. But Conan wasn't free yet. And there weren't any police, or even any other cars, in sight. "Um."

Kid held up one finger in a silencing gesture, checking the rearview mirror. Conan wasn't sure why. There was no one following them. Certainly not the gang, not after the performance ( _please let it have been a performance_ ) Kid had given. "Just a minute," Kid murmured. He hit the turn signal, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a cell phone. One button (redial, Conan guessed) had the phone beeping out a very familiar number. Then Kid coughed, and what came out sounded like he had a voice distorter on. "Megure-keibu."

Conan sagged in relieved vindication.

"Fifth warehouse south at Raiken 8-9-2. Twenty-four children, twenty-two bidders, and six sellers. The sale is happening now; no one's left yet. Remember, _don't use the police band._ It's being monitored." Kid hung up, too fast for a phone trace to work even if he hadn't been using a cell phone, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Well," he said, flat and emotionless. "I feel sick."

 

-0-0-0

 

The car wound its way towards Tokyo in an uncomfortable silence, which was broken only three times: once when Kid pulled into a small stand of trees and changed the license plates; once again after they passed a billboard for a day care, Conan sitting quiet and still as he tried not to listen to Kid being violently ill on the side of the road; and once when Conan's better judgement failed as they approached the first exits for the Itabashi ward.

_"... If it had been anyone else in the auction...?"_

_"I'd be dead."_

Eventually, though, they reached the familiar streets of Beika, and parked in the shadowy alleyway behind the Kudo mansion. The engine died with a quiet hiss, the last dregs of heat fanning from the vents, and Kid seemed to crumple in on himself without actually moving a muscle.

In the faint streetlight, his fingers shone white on the steering wheel.

If Conan had been anyone else -- had been a real child -- Kid would be dead. And he'd been sick on the way home. He wasn't attracted to children, hadn't expected -- hadn't wanted -- to have sex from this. He only had because of...

... no. Not just because of anything so noble as rescuing kids. At the most basic level, Kid had done it because someone had held a gun to his head. Almost literally.

... There was a word for that.

"Come inside."

Kid flinched at Conan's voice. "Sorry," he rasped. "I... that knot. Let me get it."

"I mean it. Come inside." Conan kept his voice low, calm and authoritative (the voice he used for shellshocked witnesses and frightened kids) and sat still while Kid unbuckled him from the seat. "You can have a shower, change your clothes and face..." He shifted gently, allowing Kid access to the cord. Kid made a soft, stricken sound when he lifted the back of Conan's cheap coat.

"It probably looks worse than it is," Conan said, not entirely truthfully. The bastards had used fine silk rope, but Conan's constant struggling through his confinement and auction, and _that_ , and the long car ride... it had done damage. He could feel the abrading on his wrists, and the slight puffiness to his hands from poor circulation.

"You're... probably going to need makeup to hide it," Kid murmured. "If you decide to." The knot came free, and Conan's arms fell by his sides at long last. It was going to be all pins and needles through his biceps and fingertips in a minute, though, so Conan pushed his arms through the coat's sleeves and opened the car door.

"Come on."

"Meitantei..."

_Oh_ no. Conan was not going to leave Kid to beat himself up. He paused halfway out the door. "I swear, on my honor as a detective, I'm not going to hurt you. Or arrest you, trap you, get someone else to do it, let someone else do it..." Stricken blue eyes landed on him, the first glance they'd shared since Before That. "Because _you didn't hurt me._ Okay? Just... come inside and get cleaned up."

With a little more coaxing, cajoling, and one reluctantly-given borderline threat ("you know they're looking for that disguise by now"), Conan managed to get Kid into the Kudo mansion.

"You can use either the guest bath, or my parents'," Conan said, as Kid toed his shoes off and muttered something vaguely polite. "My parents have a Western-style shower, if you want. It has a curtain and everything. Just leave your clothes outside... whichever door. Um, I can show you where..."

"No." Kid waved him off. "I'll be... I've been here before."

"Oh." Conan really should be upset about that. But it really didn't feel like it mattered, in the scheme of things. Not anymore. Besides, now that there was a shower in reach, every dried patch and sticky bit of fabric itched like mad. "I'll just... yeah." And he rushed upstairs, leaving Kid what privacy he could give.

Once in his own bathroom, barely managing to not slam the door shut, Conan locked it and shed his clothes as fast as he could. In some spots it felt like a bandage ripping off, with a similar sense of relief at the cool prickle of air once it was gone. Then he turned on the water, the pipes hissing and gurgling a few splutters of cloudy water before it ran clear, and began to assess the damages.

Abraded wrists, check: they'd gone an angry red around the faint grooves and shiny-wet patches left by the rope. He could hide the red with makeup, as Kid had said, but there wasn't much he could do about the indentation on his right wrist, or the dark scabs that would form where the skin was wet with plasma. His left wrist, at least, would be hidden under his watch.

Dried flakes of semen fell as he moved, blackened with fuzz from the sweatpants or fine blue threads from the coat lining. Bleach. Definitely needed bleach, and someplace to burn the clothes. Not the fireplace. An incinerator would be nice.

_Destroying evidence_ , some small part of him hissed.

_Evidence that won't help convict anybody but the victim_ , he thought back sharply, before grabbing a washcloth and standing under the spray. Soap up and hose down... soap up and hose down... great gobs of white foam slithering and swirling away. Conan caught back a shuddering breath.

Not now. He couldn't...

But when, then? Once he was dry and dressed, he'd have to go help Kid (if Kid was still here by then, if he hadn't dressed and run without any assurance that Conan, at least, didn't blame him... there was no helping whatever Kid thought of himself right now), and then go back to the Mouris and pretend everything was all right. Now was the only time he had to... to...

The breath hitched out, dragging tears in its wake. Quietly, under the cleansing fall of the shower, Conan scrubbed himself down and cried.

 

\---

 

Kid was, indeed, gone by the time Conan trudged from the bathroom. He'd left Conan's parents' bathroom spotless, only the lingering hint of humidity and the scent of Yuusaku's soap as any sign that he'd been there at all. That and one full outfit gone from Shin'ichi's closet, a pair of slacks and a sweater one size smaller than most of Shin'ichi's clothes. (He'd outgrown half his wardrobe shortly before Christmas, but Tropical Land had happened just a few days before he'd planned to clean out his closet... and he hadn't bothered after that.)

Kid was gone.

The knowledge ached somewhere near Conan's heart, empty and weary, but Conan simply sighed and began to clean up after himself. Bleach down the drain, sprayed over the showerhead and washing section of the bathroom, poured over the clothes he'd worn home... he'd come back in about a week, air out the bathroom and haul the dried clothing away, cut into little shreds and thrown away all over the city.

That done, Conan found shoes (he was going to have to get Agasa to make him a new pair with the kicking enhancers), and left. The streets were deserted, icy cold and lined with parked cars that made Conan's heartbeat pound in his ears.

Irrational. He could see anyone coming from blocks away, and the chances of someone sitting in a car on the off chance that someone might pass by... yeah, right. He was far safer now than he was walking to school.

Great. Now he was going to be paranoid and anxious about that. Good job, brain.

Conan turned onto the Mouri's street. The windows over Cafe Poirot were all lit up, 'Mouri Investigations' casting stark shadows over the road and its line of parked cars. One car in particular stood out, double-parked with red lights flashing quietly on its roof. A police car.

Of course Ran would've called when Conan didn't come home. Of course.

_I'm sorry, I lost track of the time, I fell asleep somewhere..._ not the Kudo mansion, if the police checked they'd find the bleaching clothes... maybe the park. _Looking for good hiding spots for the next time we go to play, I'll beat the girls this time, er I rinsed the leaves and dirt out in the fountain, I know I'm not supposed to but it was bugging me..._

Conan reached the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and reached for the knob. "Tadaima," he murmured as he entered the agency.

"Conan-kun?" Ran asked, voice wavering. Then hurried footsteps, and Ran landed on her knees to scoop him up with a tiny cry. "It's almost _dawn_ , where have you _been?_ "

She was shaking, Conan noticed, before her grip slackened. "... Why's your hair wet?"

"Um..." _Fountain, hiding spots, sorry._

"And those aren't the clothes you were wearing yesterday," she added suspiciously. "And you... you smell a little bit like bleach. Conan-kun, what have you been doing?"

Er. Crap, he didn't have anything to explain the clothes, and the fountain's chlorine smelled nothing like bleach. "... 'm sorry..." Conan muttered.

"... I guess you can explain later," Ran allowed. "Takagi-keiji and Sato-keiji came to see you." Conan's head snapped up, following her gesture to the two officers seated on the client couch. "They're very worried."

_More like afraid_ , Conan realized, as Ran led him over to the couches and had him sit. _Afraid and a little bit sick, all over furious._

_... Kid called Megure for the bust. Why are they here? They should be processing evidence, compiling charges and getting testimony and calling parents..._

_... unless..._

Takagi cleared his throat. "Conan-kun. We... I'm sorry, we have to ask. Did anything... bad... happen to you tonight?"

_... unless the criminals know they're caught, and their only hope of getting away is to cast enough doubt on the legality of the warrant to get it and all the evidence thrown out of court. Or to take down the informant with them, if they can't ruin his credibility enough to kill the case._

_And there are_ not _that many blue-eyed seven-year-old boys with old gunshot wounds who can be kidnapped in Beika._

Conan couldn't meet anyone's eyes. He slid from the couch, stepped over to the agency phone, and dialed a number long since memorized by heart. It rang through... four, five, six times... then clicked.

_"Nnf? Whosis?"_

"Heiji..." remember to sound seven, "...-nii?"

_"Wha... Kudo?!"_

Conan bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder. Ran looked confused, but Sato and Takagi... weren't. "I... this might put you in a terrible position, but... Heiji-nii? I think. I think you need to come to Tokyo. And... if you see the news, and make any assumptions? They're probably right."

Takagi closed his eyes, aging twenty years from the single, terrible realization.

_"... How fast do ya need me?"_

"Yesterday."

_"I'll be there by nine. Kudo, you... are you okay?"_

"... No. I'm not." Conan closed his eyes as Heiji cursed, then the line went dead and Conan hung up. He turned to face the pale-faced trio, the officers grim and Ran going whiter every second. "The people you arrested tonight. They aren't lying, or trying to distract you or confuse the investigation," Conan said, quiet and flat. "And you don't have to keep looking. I'm..." he swallowed. ( _At the most basic level, they'd done it because someone had held a gun to their heads. There was a word for that._ ) "I'm Lot Number Two. Sold for fourteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty American dollars.

"And I was raped."

 

\----

 

Nine-fifteen a.m. on the most horrifyingly surreal day of Heiji's life. Fifth floor of the Tokyo MPD. Kogoro stone-cold sober, Ran shellshocked and red-eyed, and Takagi-keiji and Sato-keiji swearing that Kudo wasn't cooperating. _Kudo_ , of all people, who'd apparently been bought and whisked away from a child auction just minutes before the police stormed the place.

And raped. Couldn't forget that part.

Heiji would like very much to wake up now. Get back to a world where the only people who attacked Kudo used guns and knives and hurled him out windows. (And while he was at it, he'd like a billion yen, a magic cure for apotoxin, and for the entire Organization to get abducted by aliens and not given back. It was about as likely.)

Kudo looked up sharply when Heiji entered the interrogation room, a flash of uncalculated panic before recognition set in. Quietly, Heiji shut the door behind him, then pulled out the cheap wooden chair and spun it around, sitting backwards in it. He folded his arms across the worn top slat, tipped his hat brim up just a bit with one thumb, and for once lowered his head to Conan's level. "Hey."

"Hey," Kudo replied in kind, just managing to meet Heiji's eyes for a moment before his gaze hit the floor again. "... I guess they told you."

"Enough." Too much, in the fact that it had happened at all. "I got the audio turned off... or I told 'em to do it, and to not hurt ya more by fakin' it, so they're still watchin' but they can't hear a thing. If ya wanna talk about it."

A long moment. Then, "'S why I called," Kudo muttered, and he reached out to pull Heiji's hand free. He settled it on the back of his neck, curling Heiji's fingers warmly but lightly just at the edge of his racing pulse, then crossed his arms behind him.

The hairs stood up on the back of Heiji's own neck. "Kudo... whatcha doin'?"

"Sensory memory. It's easier to be accurate in similar environmental conditions. The same seat for a test in class, that sort of thing. Now shut up, this isn't going to be easy on either of us." Kudo closed his eyes, and the inflection of his voice changed. "Fourteen seven-fifty, thank you very much. Are you interested in the next lot?"

_Fucking hell. He's walking me through the memory like it's a crime scene._

Even dialogue-only, Heiji went colder and colder as Kudo switched between two other speaking styles. At 'it's just a bit of a formality', though, something deep in his mind sat up and took notice. _Something's off._

"You want proof I'm not undercover."

_... Way off. Off enough that... this guy was the informant, right? Most likely? If I was listening to an undercover cop having a conversation like that about a woman, next thing you know Otan'd have him on medical leave and in counseling for months._

"Well, what must be, must be," Kudo finished with a full shudder, eyes snapping open as he blindly shoved Heiji's hand off. Heiji stayed perfectly still, posture open and unthreatening. "And I'm not going through the rest like that," Kudo said, pressed tightly against the back of his chair. "But... impressions so far?"

Bingo. Kudo thought something about that explained why he wasn't cooperating. "Got a couple of 'em," Heiji admitted. "Could go either way, but it's leanin' more towards the worse one right now. I got a couple questions, ya don't have ta answer 'em... but this guy had fifteen grand in dollars on him, and he did manage ta molest ya enough that they let him leave with ya. So I ain't too clear on how that don't show intent and interest."

"... You have to promise me you won't go looking for him."

Like hell. " _Kudo._ "

"Promise!" Kudo turned furious eyes on Heiji. "You can argue with me about it later if you need to, but I can't say anything if you're going to go behind my back on this!"

"... Fine." Whatever would get Kudo talking now so Heiji could shake some sense into him later.

Kudo glowered, searching his face warily. Whatever he saw there seemed to convince him. "He knows who I am."

Heiji nearly fell out of the chair. "WHAT?" Okay, that was Kudo's parents, Agasa, uh... _shut up brain I made a promise not thirty seconds ago!_

"He knows who I am," Kudo repeated sharply. One hand lifted, displaying oddly pale fingertips. "And he didn't know the sellers erased our fingerprints. If I'd been rescued by police, and had my prints taken... they were still Kudo Shin'ichi's."

Damn. Damn, damn, damn... Heiji had hidden his best friend, despite being a murder suspect, on the strength of 'Kudo's _dead_ if the cops prove he's not yet' before. If this guy had found out... "Can't let the auction go through," Heiji muttered to himself. "Can't rescue you openly and spook the bastards. Can't rescue everyone and subdue the perps alone. Can't let you get caught there by the cops." And then he got blindsided by their sick 'formality'.

It even explained how he could manage at all. Heiji himself almost never thought of Kudo as a kid. Take that far enough, just the once... ick. But with lives on the line, real kids on the line... _I hope to god I never have to find out if I can._

"Fucking hell, Kudo. Yer protectin' a rape victim, ain'tcha."

Relief flooded across Kudo's face. "I'd never been less sure of a deduction," he said shakily. "And before you can get sick wondering if it was Tousan in disguise, the guy's around sixteen."

Sixteen. _Underage_ rape victim. Younger than Heiji, might not even realize he wasn't some sicko predator... who knew if he had anyone to help... strike that, he couldn't, not without telling about Kudo. And who the hell would believe that?

If they didn't find him, without involving the cops and a shitstorm of publicity, Heiji gave it less than a year before the guy jumped in front of a train.

 

-0-0-0

 

By the time Kuroba returned to school from his "illness" -- several days during which Saguru sifted through the rumors circling through the stricken police force, and delicately interrogated his own father over their untouched dinners -- Saguru had worked himself up into a _State._

He'd only needed to hear the sole descriptor that Edogawa had released to deduce exactly who the mysterious informant must be. There weren't that many teenage boys with ready access to considerable amounts of cash, foreign or otherwise, underworld connections, a vested interest in Edogawa, and the capacity to disguise themselves with any skill at all.

But why had Kid felt the need to retrieve Edogawa personally before the police could?

Maybe someday, Saguru would be able to throttle it out of the gormless _clot_. Along with a lot of other answers. Preferably before worse occured.

But first things first. It was altogether too cold and gray a day for any but the most determined of students to make their way to the rooftop during lunch. Which was why the place was deserted when Saguru settled himself next to the stairwell door, on the side that would be hidden should someone come hurtling out onto the roof... as Kuroba did not five minutes later.

His usual cheerful demeanor, which had only been blunted when conversation turned to the ongoing news, fled as he strode swiftly to the encircling fence, threading his fingers through the wire gaps like he would fall into pieces without the anchor.

Saguru let the door close naturally, the latch thudding into place, before he stepped sideways to lean against it, arms crossed. Not that requiring actual flight was ever that much of a hindrance should Kuroba need an escape, but there were principles. A symbolic blocking of routes.

"I," Saguru growled, and Kuroba spun with a singular kind of stark terror stifled in a flash, "cannot _believe_ you went up against monsters like that without backup."

"... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Cut the crap, Kuroba." Saguru's fingers tightened on his elbows, itching with the need to smack the man. "I've never seen such an ill-concieved, suicidal, moronic plan out of you. _Ever._ " He could not have had more than a panicked hour or two to come up with it, and most of it would've needed to be arranged while en route. There was still no excuse for a Kid plan to have ended in such tragedy.

It could've been worse. Saguru hated himself for thinking that, but it was only truth. "Do you have any idea--" No. No, he couldn't have known, any more than he could've known of their disgusting vouchsafe. "If they'd checked for a mask, latex feels different from skin," and pulled differently, prothestics tearing right off, as the Task Force all knew entirely too well. "If they'd discovered the ruse you'd be worse than dead."

Kuroba stared blankly.

Perhaps it was that Saguru had been kept awake with vivid, intrusive imagery since taking the culprits' interviews from his father's briefcase. Perhaps it was the identical exhaustion clouding Kuroba's eyes, muffling any flash of understanding from getting through.

There was still no excuse for the icy fury that snapped free. "You remember the teenage culprit? The drug addict who witnessed the transaction? He was an unsold _victim_." And had spent the past nine years passed along as he aged to suit their tastes. The police had found three more in the culprits' various homes, each younger than the last. "If you'd been caught, you're _exactly the ringleader's type._ "

Kuroba bolted. Straight up the chain links, "I-don't-think-you-should-be-telling-me-this-I'm-a-civilian--" yelped out before Saguru caught one flailing foot and yanked. Kuroba tumbled with a startled cry, Saguru pivoting on one foot to spin out the momentum, and they crashed loudly into the fence.

Wire diamonds bit into Saguru's back and shoulders as Kuroba struggled.

"Let go let go you can't arrest me _please_ let _go_ \--"

"Shut up," Saguru hissed, before burying his face against the junction of Kuroba's neck and shoulder. A split second later, Kuroba froze, every muscle broadcasting shock once it penetrated that this was a hug, not a capture. Though it was a very tight and furious hug. "I don't know what you thought you were doing, if it was hubris or madness or something else, but _never frighten me like that again._ "

Silence. Then Kuroba twisted uncomfortably. "Wasn't me," he muttered perfunctorily.

Sure, and Saguru was the Queen. He made an equally perfunctory scoffing sound into Kuroba's shoulder.

"Whoever did it is _sick_ ," Kuroba added. "He doesn't deserve to be free. And I hope he doesn't have anyone treating him like this!"

Saguru rocked back a bit, not to loosen his grip but to look Kuroba in the eyes. "I hope that he didn't enjoy it," he said, as mildly as he could. "Since we're unlikely to ever catch him. I hope he's so sickened he'll never do it again. And I hope he has to live with it for a very, very long time."

_That_ brought a faint sound of raw, pained bewilderment from deep within Kaito's throat.

_As good an actor as he is, I'll never know one way or the other just how honest that is. But if I can be sure of my trust in Kid, of Edogawa's uncannily sound judgement_...

Saguru let his gaze fall. "If you wish to go home," _and lick your wounds in peace, as little of it as you can obtain_ , "I'll cover for you." And he let go.

Thirty seconds later, he was alone on the roof.

 

-0-0-0

 

Weeks passed. And then, precisely twenty-three days after That Night, a demure, cream-colored envelope appeared in the Task Force's mail.

_That snaggletoothed blade_  
Born hence round the ring  
Two thirteen counts ago  
(More and less)  
\- KID 

It went out in all the papers that very evening. Conan only just managed to write out a copy before Kogoro took the newspaper away, folded it, and bopped him lightly on the head with it. Then Kogoro settled in his office chair, opening the paper to the racing scores.

Conan left him to it. Maybe Kogoro would go on to the Kid riddle, maybe he wouldn't -- it didn't matter, Conan had the notice to study. Though quite a bit of it was clear at a glance, what with the end-of-the-world doomsayers cashing in on the Mayan calendar. So, first to look up Mesoamerican exhibits...

The little thrum in the pit of Conan's stomach wasn't pure excitement this time. There was a sour thread laced through it, more like what he felt when the note was a forgery -- as it invariably was when the target wasn't a gemstone, when the true goal turned out to be murder -- but this wasn't a forgery. Not if you expanded the definition of 'gem' a little bit.

Still. Conan slept badly that night, his hastily-written copy of the notice next to his pillow.

The next day was a Sunday, so Conan had no school. He ate breakfast quickly and lost himself in the internet, cross-referencing addresses and floor numbers and exhibits, artifact eras and expedition and publication dates, and barely noticed when someone knocked at the door.

"--dogawa-kun?"

Conan heard _that_ , his head snapping up even as he vaguely placed the voice. Adult male, British accent, somewhat nasal... the name popped up from associations with Kid and cops. "Hakuba-san?" Conan asked, curling to peer around the back of his chair.

Sure enough, the blond detective stood at the threshold, Ran not-very-subtly blocking his way. Which Conan was getting very tired of by now.

"Sorry," Conan said, hopping down to the floor and trotting over to the genkan. "It's not him, Ran-neechan."

A faint blush tinted over her cheeks, only visible because of how pale she'd grown over the last few weeks. " _Conan-kun._ "

"Him--?" Hakuba's tension racheted up a notch, just barely noticeable in the set of his shoulders. "Ah. A male acquaintance of approximately that age, not a Teitan High student, suddenly appearing on your doorstep. My apologies, I perhaps should have had someone older sent in my place." He turned rueful eyes on Ran. "If it's not too distressing to hear, I do have an alibi."

"... Of course you do. Please, come in. I'm sorry about that. If Conan-kun would just tell the police a little more..." Ran gave Conan the stink-eye, and Conan made a mulish face right back. 

He was not going to have this fight again, not in front of Hakuba, and especially not after what he'd snapped from sheer frustration the last time. Even if it really technically was a little late for her to be so overprotective.

"That may be something we discuss, Mouri-san," Hakuba said. "Pardon my rudeness, but considering time constraints... my business here is to evaluate Edogawa-kun for participation in the Task Force's efforts against Kid."

_They didn't._

One look at Hakuba's face told him otherwise. They really _did_ think he might not be capable of... of... that he might be a hindrance to catching Kid!

He quickly stomped down the surge of complete incensed indignation, pasting a bright smile on his face. "I've almost solved the notice!" he said as perkily as he could, pointing towards the computer. "I don't think Kid was trying very hard this time."

"I see." Something flickered through Hakuba's eyes, there and gone even as he turned to Ran. "I'm sorry, if it's not a bother, it would be a more accurate assessment without the psychological assurance of your presence."

"Excuse me?" Ran snapped. Hakuba quickly leaned closer, murmuring something Conan couldn't make out, damn the man. She didn't look particularly mollified. "Ten minutes. And if Conan is at all upset when I get back, I'm kicking you out." Then she pasted a polite smile on her face and bent down to Conan's level. "I'm going to get some coffee, Conan-kun. Be good." And with that, she grabbed her purse, slipped into her shoes, and left.

The door slammed shut.

Conan stared. Then he glanced up at Hakuba, who simply gestured towards the couches.

Hakuba settled on the guest side, interlaced his fingers, and watched from over concealing hands as Conan climbed onto the couch opposite. "Mouri-san," he murmured, "is listening just outside the door. So should you react too loudly, she will come in."

... Wait. Hakuba had just said that he needed Conan to think they were alone.

Conan didn't have a chance to start deducing why. Hakuba's hands dropped to settle on his knees, and he bowed smoothly as deep as he could, blond hair brushing his fingertips. "Please don't go to the heist."

"What?!" Conan managed to keep it down to a hiss. _So that's why he said to keep quiet..._ "Why?"

Hakuba straightened just enough to meet Conan's eyes. "Because I am one of perhaps three people in the world who believes that Kid is under thirty-five." Conan froze. "Because there are very few teenagers with a mastery of disguise, criminal connections to hear of the auction and obtain such amounts of cash readily, and a vested interest in you." Hakuba's eyes went bright and pained. "Because if my deductions are correct, then Kaitou Kid's nerves are shot as it is."

_Kid gets shot at on a regular basis. He comes terrifyingly close to getting caught, mere centimeters that I'm not so sure are showmanship, almost every time we meet, and he's been just as close with Hakuba several times. If he got caught... even if he escaped, if he was found to be underage, Hakuba's already laid out how that alone identifies him as The Informant._ "I'd be a distraction. A potentially lethal one."

Hakuba let out a shuddering sigh. "I am sorry."

"No. Someone needed to tell me. Just... one thing." The reason Conan had wanted to go. The one thin thread of _wrong_ in his excitement. "How badly do you think he's doing?"

"You tell me." Hakuba drew a sheet of paper from an inner pocket, unfolding it to reveal a photocopy of the original note, then spun it on the tabletop to face Conan. Except for the font (handwriting instead of newsprint), it was exactly as the paper had said.

Except. There was something slightly off about the positioning of the caricature. The image was too high, and the last line had something of a... squished air to it. As if he'd had to draw the picture several times to get the proper smirk, and had taken to writing the signature first to save time. It also looked like he'd made some attempt at a pun, but it really looked more like a typo or a common mistake. And the rest... "It's too simple," Conan said slowly. "I'm pretty sure he means the Vampire Jade of Ix, but there's not a single comment about how grossly misnamed it is, or the breath of life, or a real Long Count date, or... or anything."

Hakuba inclined his head. "I would've expected an L. Frank Baum joke as well, given his penchant for English-language classics. However."

Conan swallowed. "He's... really not doing well at all. Is he."

"No." Hakuba paused, something measuring in the blond's cool stare keeping Conan silent. Then, "If you wish, we may exchange phone numbers. Certain parties of my acquaintance have very strong opinions upon the matter that you may wish to confirm or refute."

Certain parties of...? No. No, he couldn't possibly mean... Conan examined Hakuba's expression more closely. It was difficult to tell, but surely Hakuba had to know that it sounded an awful lot like he'd just claimed to know Kid as a civilian.

Conan brought out his phone. "Please."

The door opened while he was keying Hakuba's information in. Conan glanced up to find Ran had returned. Hopefully he looked glum enough. "Hi, Ran-neechan."

She smiled. "Did it go well?" _Are you okay?_

"Yeah." Conan gestured with the phone. "We're trading numbers. Hakuba-san's gonna call and tell me how the heist goes." He paused and looked away. "... I'm not going."

"You're not? But you were so excited about it..."

Shoot, what would she believe? Or, rather, what would she believe Hakuba had said that wouldn't get the blond on the wrong end of a karate chop? "I was wrong about the riddle," Conan grumbled. "Really badly wrong."

Hakuba looked appropriately sympathetic. "I am sorry, Edogawa-kun. But perhaps you'll feel up to the next one." He stood and put his phone back in his pocket, then bowed to Ran and Conan in turn. "Mouri-san, thank you. Edogawa-kun, I'll speak to you tomorrow before school. Until then."

The door shut softly behind him as he left.

Ran's hand settled lightly on Conan's shoulder. Before she could ask, Conan covered her hand with both of his and leaned against her leg. "I really wanted to go," he said quietly.

_I wanted to see that he's not a monster. That he knows he's not a monster. I need to know we're okay despite those bastards._

Conan thought about testifying without Kid to protect. Without Kid pulling his heists, either vanished into the files of teen statistics or -- worse -- discovered. Thought about being subpoenaed to testify against Kid. He swallowed bile and clung more tightly to Ran.

_Please make it through the heist._

 

-0-0-0

 

Kaito's pen moved automatically across the page, scrawling slowly and messily as he marked page numbers for their bibliography. If it was a bibliography. It could possibly be busywork, open books that Hakuba pushed over to him every so often. Surely they couldn't need this many references for a five-page paper, even if Hakuba was an overachiever with a private library that rivaled the school's on... whatever the topic was.

A glance at the current page showed a drawing of an ancient Chinese bill, a portrait of people in Song clothing working a printing press under heavy guard. First paper-printed money, the caption read, invented in 1024 in Sichuan. Images courtesy of--

_Lot two, do I hear a thousand? One thousand, two, four..._

Kaito flinched violently and dropped his pen. Again.

On the other side of the low coffee table, Hakuba didn't so much as twitch. In fact, he very studiously focused on his notetaking while Kaito warily leaned down to fetch the pen.

Kaito didn't know whether to laugh or scream. On the one hand, Hakuba knew. (Someone was going to notice how hard Hakuba was working to make everyone else think he was behaving as usual towards Kaito. They had to. Right?) On the other... since Hakuba knew, Kaito didn't need to put any real effort into pretending everything was normal. (If he got into the habit of not putting forth his all, especially around Hakuba, eventually he was going to slip up for real. Just like undercover work. Don't live the mask, live the life.)

Far at the front of the house, the doorbell rang.

"Ah. That is probably for me," Hakuba said mildly, setting his work aside and standing halfway up. "I'm expecting a package. If you will excuse me." And he left the library, closing the door quietly behind him.

Kaito glanced quickly around himself -- a spot-check, really, since he'd scouted for bugs and vantage points before plopping down in a spot that had nothing but open sky visible through the window and vice versa -- then slumped over the books. Alone at last, if only for a few minutes. 

A few moments later, Kaito heard a faint thump. Must've been a heavy package, to land on the hall floor like that.

A few moments after _that_ , the door to the library opened once more. "--mean 'of course'?" a vaguely familiar, entirely unexpected voice grumbled in Kansai-ben. Kaito's head snapped up. Hattori Heiji stepped through the doorway, one hand rubbing his shoulder as he turned away from Hakuba. Green eyes landed on Kaito, and Hattori stopped short. " _Whoa_ that's freaky!" he yelped.

Hattori, here, meant... _Holy Benten on high NO._

Kaito felt the blood drain from his face, and he tore his eyes away from Hattori to find Edogawa Conan standing _right there._

"Okay, now I'm really grossed out," Hattori muttered weakly. "You been hiding a secret brother, Ku-- kiddo? Long-lost cousin?" Edogawa half-heartedly smacked Hattori's hip.

Hattori _knew_. Edogawa had _told_ him-- Hakuba had invited them-- but he'd had Edogawa stay away from the heist, not that Kid had really believed it until the preparatory media check, listening in on police radios and live videos of the crowd... but why, if he was just going to trap Kid later...?

Kid didn't realize he was staring helplessly until Hakuba plucked at Hattori's sleeve. "Let's give them a minute," the British boy murmured, tipping his head to the reading chairs a discreet distance away in the other corner of the large room. A few seconds passed where it seemed like Hattori was rooted to the floor, then Hakuba caught him by the elbow and bodily hauled him away.

Edogawa stood alone (and small, and fragile, and _utterly imposingly terrifying_ ) before the open library door (leap over the desk, feint left and rush past Edogawa, ricochet off the corridor wall, he could get the lock undone and escape before Edogawa got a bead on him with the damn dart-watch... but what good would that do? The three detectives had all they needed to chase him down, whether they set the world on him or not...)

"... You look awful," Edogawa said tentatively, edging closer. His opinion to that obvious remark must've shown on his face (not good, be the mask, live the life--), because Edogawa shrugged. "Yeah, well, it answers the question I had," he said ruefully as he slid onto the floor cushion next to Kid, leaving only a corner of the table between them. "It would've been stupid to hope you were doing much better than... well, this."

To hope...? Edogawa wasn't making any sense. Coming here in the first place didn't make sense. Who in their right mind wanted to get anywhere near someone who'd... who'd...

"I'm stupid, though," Edogawa added, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that wasn't a smile, not at all.

_Don't live the mask, live the life._ Kaito pulled his mouth into some semblence of a polite smile. "Well, thanks, boyo. I guess Hakuba-san told you I've been fighting off a bad cold this week, maybe a touch of flu. Might not want to get too close. Could be contagious, you know."

Edogawa raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh. More like the past month, though, right? You might want to check for bronchitis."

"I'll do that. Thanks for your well-wishes." _Now go away. Please go away._

"You're welcome." Edogawa leaned closer, Kaito fighting not to push back. Then the boy grinned brightly, his own mask of the cute little prodigy dropping down with ease, and he glomped onto Kaito's arm and shoulder. "Maybe it was something you ate. Like an allergy or something. And then you wouldn't be contagious or really sick at all!" he chirped. His arms tightened fiercely for a moment. "So you're gonna be okay."

_I don't think you're sick._

_You're going to put this behind you._

_I don't blame you._

Kaito blinked back tears, then raised his hand and gently squeezed Conan's own, small one. "Not for a while," he replied. "But maybe."

Conan squeezed back, then let go.


End file.
